The Council of Elessar
by Eggo Waffles
Summary: It's the Fourth Age, and a matter of Utter Seriousness has prompted Aragorn to call a council.
1. Of Garden Refuse and Gnome Abuse

**Disclaimers:** If I owned it, I'd make you pay to read it, love.

**A/n:** Knocking out a great many stray bunnies in one fell swoop, this fic is the product of a forced breeding (à la Isengard) between a discarded plotline for _Should've Thought of That One, Bori_, a very dull science lecture, and a few long-neglected fics that have been wasting away in my hard drive for months. Needless to say, it's a bit of a strange mishmash—and, as sections of this have been written for quite some time, it may even contain a recycled joke or two. Please bear with me.

This got a little lengthy while I was writing it, so I've hacked it up into sizeable chunks. Chapter 2 is mostly written, and, depending on if I have further inspiration, there may even be a Chapter 3. No longer, though—I can't write support two full-length WIPs at once:-)

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"Faramir, that infernal Palantír's ringing again! Will you go and answer it, please?"

The sound of his wife's dulcet (if somewhat aggravated) tones ringing through the corridor awoke Faramir from where he sat in the library alcove, dozing away with a sizeable book of Elven lore propped in his lap, and sent him bounding away and across the hall into the drawing room, where he snatched the marbled globe between his hands, and, peering into its obsidian depths, said, "Hello?"

"Faramir, old thing!" A flickering image of Aragorn's grinning face swam into view. "Got your Seeing Stone™ fixed at last, I see?"

"Yes, finally," groaned Faramir, setting the Palantír on the table and seating himself comfortably in the chair before it. "Took me just about an Age, mind. Instruction manual absolutely no help at all."

"They never are, are they? Moneymaking scheme, I believe… they make the directions infernally obscure so that you're forced to hire one of their technicians for repairs. Clever bastards, those business types!"

"It makes things rather difficult for the rest of us," complained Faramir, "You ought to put a stop to it, Sire."

"Oh, I don't see the point in that… we're trying to encourage the free market, right? _Laissez faire _and whatnot? The spirit of democracy?"

"We're a monarchy, actually, Aragorn."

"Oh." The King's countenance looked mildly puzzled for a moment. "Well, never mind that—you seem to have got it rigged up all right, at any rate. Though the picture quality's a bit grainy," he added, peering at Faramir owlishly.

"We get poor reception out here in Ithilien," explained Faramir. "And there's still some odd broadcast interference out of the Morgul Vale."

"Quite." There was a moment of silence, and then the image of Aragorn's face assumed an expression of solemnity. "Faramir, believe it or not, I didn't call you up this time just to banter about our household gadgets and to complain about our wives and to trade embarrassing stories about your brother. The reason I called is one of Utter Seriousness."

"How serious is that?" asked Faramir.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "Utterly serious."

"Ah."

"As in, 'death, doom, destruction, and the-end-of-Middle-Earth-as-we-know-it' serious," added Aragorn by way of clarification.

"Oh, I see." Faramir frowned. "Are the sewers at Osgiliath stopped up again, then?"

"This matter is more serious," said the King gravely, "even than that."

The Steward gaped with palpable disbelief. "Can that _be?"_

"It can," said Aragorn.

"I was garrisoned there for six months. Such a horror can hardly be comprehended. I lost seven good men from the fumes alone!"

"Yes, but this even worse, I'm telling you. So bad that I've been forced to call a secret council, in fact."

"A secret council? Am I invited, pray tell?"

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "No, but I just thought I'd tell you all about it, anyway. Of _course_ you're invited, Faramir, don't be daft."

"No need to get sarcastic, _Sire,"_ said Faramir. "I have a history of being left out of secret councils, even when I have prophetic dreams about them beforehand. Where will it be held? The Citadel?"

"Actually, we're having it at your place," said Aragorn.

"_My_ place?"

"Yes. Your terrace is the nicest."

"What in Eru's name has my terrace got to do with it?"

"You simply _can't_ have a proper council without a proper terrace. It's one of the Unspoken Laws. And Arwen has put all these horrid lawn ornaments on ours—miniature fountains and windchimes and stone animal figurines and things like that—it simply won't do."

"Éowyn's no better; she's got a veritable menagerie of ceramic garden gnomes on ours. I trust that your terrace will do just as well."

"Oh, yes, and did I mention that Arwen's inherited her grandmother's birdbath also?"

Faramir paled. "Oh _Valar. _She's got _that_ monstrosity on display?_"_

"My feelings exactly. So it would be infinitely preferable if we used your terrace, give or take the gnomes."

"I see," Faramir replied. "I will have to ask Éowyn, you understand."

Aragorn stared at him expectantly. "Well, go on then, man! I haven't got all day!"

"Give me a moment." Faramir turned away from the Palantír and called out, "Honey? _Honey?_ Éowyn love, would it be alright if I had a few guests over?"

A pause. "What for?" came the reply.

"Er, a secret council! Oh, blast!" he added as an afterthought, glancing at the Seeing Stone™ ruefully. "Was I not supposed to tell her?"

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "It doesn't really matter."

"A secret council? When?" called Éowyn.

"Er… when is this, Aragorn?" asked Faramir.

"Tomorrow."

"It's tomorrow, dear!"

"_Tomorrow?"_ shrieked Éowyn. "_Tomorrow?_ Are you mad, Faramir? The house is a mess! Do you have any idea how much work I'll have to do tonight? I'll have to mop and vacuum and dust and…"

"Never mind all that, we're having it out on the terrace anyway," interrupted Faramir.

"The terrace? _The terrace?"_ was the shrill reply to this notion. "The garden is a disgrace, Faramir! Have you _seen_ the state of the hydrangea bushes? And the ivy on the balustrades is overgrown again! And there are dead leaves all over the terrace, and mildew between the paving! And I haven't polished the garden gnomes in over a week!"

Aragorn choked noisily. Faramir ignored him. "It's no matter, dear… I don't suspect that anyone will mind…"

"_No_, Faramir! Absolutely _not!_ I won't have company coming over and thinking we don't know how to keep house like civilized people!"

Faramir sighed. "Well, could you… I don't know, clean up around the terrace a bit, then?"

"Clean the terrace? _Tonight? _What, do you think I'm _made_ of time?"

"Well, how about _I_ clean the terrace? If I clean the terrace tonight, can I have a secret council tomorrow? Please, love? Please?"

A pause. "Oh, alright, I _suppose_."

Faramir returned his attention to the Palantír, pointedly disregarding the derisive look that his King was sending in his direction. "Well, that's all settled, then."

"Faramir," said Aragorn. "She's got you _whipped."_

"We all make some sacrifices for love, Mr. My-Wife-Buys-Stone-Animal-Figurines."

Aragorn grimaced. "Speak for yourself, Mr. _My-_Wife-Buys-Garden-Gnomes. Oh, I've got to run… I can hear that blasted mirror-birdbath-fountain contrivance trickling outside and it's making me want to piss…"

"Try living at Henneth Annûn," quipped Faramir. "And you know, as King you could conceivably order Arwen to get rid of the birdbath, if you wanted."

"We all make some sacrifices for love," replied Aragorn snidely, before switching off his Seeing Stone™ and making a mad dash for the chamber pot.

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When Elessar Telcontar, Aragorn Arathornson Elfstone, King of Gondor and Lord of the Westlands, arrived in the principality of Ithilien, he could not help but notice that his Steward's arm was in a sling. When Aragorn demanded clarification, he explained that he had 'accidentally' broken all the garden gnomes while attending to the terrace, and that Éowyn, it had transpired, had been rather miffed. Aragorn clapped him on his uninjured shoulder and said, "Good man."

"Next time we have a secret council, it'll be on _your_ terrace, birdbaths or no."

They settled out on the comfortable deck furniture with glasses of iced tea. "This terrace really is a marvel, though. The forest lighting does wonders for any patio. Er… how did you finally get rid of the mildew_?"_

"With a toothbrush, that's how," muttered Faramir. "We still need a grill out here, though."

"I recommend the Orodruin Deluxe. That's what we have."

"That's what I was thinking… It will take some finagling, though. Éowyn _so_ particular about the yard. 'And let us make a garden there; all things will grow, if the White Lady comes'—that was what I told her when I proposed, and she took it to heart. I mean, just look. Flowers everywhere." Faramir gestured around vaguely with his free arm. "The garden gnomes were the last straw, though."

Aragorn took a deep swig from his glass of tea, and then frowned. "Have you got anything stronger, by any chance?"

Faramir shook his head. "No alcohol here, Aragorn. We're strict teetotalers in this house."

The King smirked. "Éowyn again?"

Faramir rolled his eyes. "She'll be rallying a Temperance Movement in the White City any day now…"

"Well, then, it's a good thing I told Legolas to bring his Dorwinion vintage with him…"

"Legolas? Legolas is coming? Gods, Aragorn," Faramir cried, "please tell me he isn't bringing his harem with him!"

The Harem of Legolas was a rather recent and shocking development in the realm of Greenwood. A large number of young women with knee-length hair, multicolored eyes, legendary swords, animal companions, and names such as Ky'lassa, Edriólarêfaødwen, and Amethystra had arrived on the Prince's doorstep unexpectedly one morning, all claiming some form of amnesia, and had refused to leave since.

"I didn't invite them," said Aragorn, "but they may show up anyway; they seem to accompany him everywhere these days."

"It's just that somehow I doubt that my wife would approve if a horde of scantily clad warrioresses showed up on the back porch for a 'secret council'."

"No fear, Lord Steward," came a clear voice from over the rhododendrons. "I gave them the slip on the way here—we ran into a contingent of giant spiders. They'll probably kill one or two and then have a group therapy session; it'll be hours before they notice I've gone." Legolas appeared on the terrace, followed by a scowling Gimli.

" I still don't understand why he's got a harem and I haven't," grumbled the Dwarf. "Especially when he's obviously gayer than Tom Bombadil on a sugar high."

"Oh, yes, Gimli, since you are obviously such an irresistible specimen of manliness," scoffed Legolas as the pair of them sat down on lawn chairs. "The _elleth_ can barely look at you before they scream '"Gimli" a piece of _that!'_"

"Ooh, low blow," remarked Aragorn.

"And that _is_ saying a lot," added Legolas.

"Stuff it before I ram my axe up yours," snarled Gimli. "And when is this damned council getting under way, Aragorn? It seems to be taking its sweet time, given that the 'doom of Middle-earth is at hand' or whatever you said in your letter…"

"We have to wait until the others arrive. I made sure that _all_ the peoples of Middle-earth were represented… Men, Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves, _peredhil_…"

"Did you remember Ents?" inquired Faramir.

Aragorn groaned and smacked a palm to his forehead. "_Blast!_ I forgot Treebeard!"

"And good thing, too, or this council might take years altogether!" another voice rang over the deck, as Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrine Took vaulted over the railing and landed in a heap near Legolas's feet. "Hello, everyone—Strider, Legolas, Gimli. Nice statue you've got back there, Faramir—it looks uncannily like Sam!"

"What? Did I miss one? Where is it?" cried Faramir wildly, leaping to his feet and dashing off behind the shrubbery.

Merry stared after him in confusion. "What was _that_ about?"

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "Garden gnomes. Faramir has an odd phobia about them."

"The PC term is 'horticulturally inclined dwarves', actually," grunted Gimli.

There was a dull thud, a sharp cry, and the sound of shattering ceramic. Faramir stumbled back into view, clutching his foot with his uninjured hand and hopping on the spot. "**(Censored)(censored)(censored)(censored)!** Someone get me some ice!"

Legolas offered his glass of iced tea, and the Steward wedged his toe within gratefully.

"Did you really try to kick it? That was uncharacteristically stupid," remarked Aragorn.

"Even I have my moments of unmitigated rage," grunted Faramir, hissing as the ice burned his tender toes. "When is the rest of this Eru-forsaken council going to arrive?"

Very shortly, it transpired.

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**A/n:** Confused? Intrigued? Disgusted? Enamored? Review and let me know... the next chapter promises to be much more action-packed!


	2. AU Elements

**Disclaimers: **If songfics were allowed, I would write a fabulous filk-disclaimer to the tune of "_If I Only Had A Brain",_ with an accompanying dance routine and strobe lights— but, alas, the system is against me.

**A/n:** Aw, I love you guys! Thanks for all the wonderful reviews. :-)

And onward… to Chapter Two! (_insert appropriately dramatic brass fanfare with accompanying percussion that prominently features clashing cymbals)_

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Attendees found their way to Faramir's terrace one by one— assorted Gondorian lords, including Imrahil of Dol Amroth; Faramir's brother-in-law, Éomer: Haldir of Lórien, whose current state of mortality no one was quite sure about; and finally Elladan and Elrohir, who heralded their arrival with a series of highly juvenile pranks involving whoopee cushions and rubber snakes that was somewhat difficult to reconcile with their sober upbringing and former quest for revenge, but which went largely unquestioned.

And then there was an utterly unexpected appearance.

"_Mithrandir!"_ gasped Faramir.

"That's Gandalf the Green to you," said the Wizard moodily, swirling his jade-colored cloak irritably. "I wish that Middle-earth would learn to take care of itself, for once, so that I don't have to keep being sent back!"

"Oh, don't be such a sour grape—Alright, alright, settle down now!" barked Aragorn over the heads of the milling, iced-tea guzzling crowd. "Elladan, Elrohir, stop flicking bogies at Haldir, please."

"You were always such a boss, little brother," ribbed Elrohir as they took their seats. Aragorn ignored him, and took his own place on Faramir's largest deck chair. He surveyed the gathering of Elves, Men, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Wizards, all of whom were sitting in a silent circle, waiting for him to speak—all except Pippin, that is, who was in a stupor beneath his chair, having drunk the entirety of Legolas's Dorwinion while no one was looking. Aragorn chose to ignore him as well.

He cleared his throat. "Strangers from distant lands ... well, no, none of you are strangers actually…. _Ahem! _Friends of old… er, actually, very few of you are actually my friends, though you probably didn't know that—my, that was a bit of a _faux pas_, wasn't it? Ah well… People of Middle Earth! No, that doesn't work either; Wizards aren't from Middle-earth…"

"Skip the introduction," muttered Faramir.

"Right, then! You have been summoned here to…"

He was interrupted again, but this time Faramir was not the culprit. A low rumbling sound was resonating somewhere from beneath the earth; a shadow had fallen over the terrace, and a chill wind whistled through the garden, high-pitched and eerie…

"Gandalf!" cried Legolas. "Have you been saying things in Black Speech again?"

"Alas, no," replied Gandalf, "though I may have cursed in every other known tongue during that little speech of Aragorn's…"

The rumbling continued unabated; an icy mist was spreading over the patio, curling amorphous arms around feet and chair legs, building into a column of smoke in the back corner, which gradually began to form itself into a strange shape, a gray translucent shape, a humanoid shape that looked rather uncannily like…

"Is that…?" began Merry.

The shape turned around and beamed. "Hello, everyone! Miss me?"

Faramir leapt to his feet and hobbled across the patio. "_Boromir!"_ They rushed toward each other, arms outstretched, which resulted in Faramir careening right through Boromir's lucent torso and collapsing into the forsythias. Boromir made a few futile attempts to help his brother to his feet and then threw up his hands in exasperation. "This disembodiment thing will take some getting used to…" he said apologetically as Faramir staggered back onto the terrace. "Why is your foot jammed inside a glass of iced tea?"

"Long story…"

"Not that it isn't nice to see you and everything, Boromir," interrupted Aragorn. "But what exactly are you _doing_ here?"

"The Dead need a representative at this council, don't they?" said the dearly departed Gondorian. "And the King of the Dead wasn't feeling quite up to the job… he's had ectoplasmic kidney stones or something equally odd…" He tried to sit in a chair, sank through it, and settled for hovering in midair between Faramir and Legolas. "Sorry I'm so late, anyway… where were we?"

"We _were_ about to begin," said Gandalf coldly. "Would you mind dispelling all this mist?"

"Oh, right." With a wave of his semi-transparent hand, the creeping chill and ghostly miasma disintegrated, and the sun burst out from behind the clouds once more. "I apologize about the whole entrance… the fog and such is a regrettable but unavoidable byproduct…"

Faramir, who knew his brother too well, didn't believe this for an instant, but chose not to say anything.

"_Ahem,"_ said Aragorn. "May we continue?"

"Oh, don't mind me," said Boromir's ghost with a cherubic smile before muttering, "You certainly didn't at the _last_ council."

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As it turned out, there _was_ one stranger at the Council—a hunched, timorous, gray-whiskered man who had come with Gandalf and then proceeded to hide behind him throughout most of the introduction. He called himself Alatar, and proved to be one of the five Istar, one of the two Blue Wizards who had come from the West and then proceeded to drop off the face of Arda.

"Actually, I went into the East and did geological field research. Mordor is a veritable wellspring of igneous rock formations," he said, his timidity falling away as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet with near-palpable enthusiasm. "And it is on that subject that I have come to speak today."

"You've come to tell us about rocks?" said Merry blankly. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything, young Master Hobbit," said Alatar. "In the duration of the Age during which I have studied, I have learned many things about the nature of matter. And one of these things is that matter cannot be created or destroyed. While collecting samples amidst the wreckage of Mount Doom, I discovered and painstakingly collected the molten fragments of none other than the Ring of Power."

Everyone stared at him blankly.

"The Ring was destroyed," said Éomer presently.

The Blue Wizard's eyes blazed emphatically. "_No!_ Matter can_not_ be destroyed! Divided, changed, altered, yes, but _never_ destroyed! The One Ring continues to exist! Fragmented, yes, but it exists all the same! And being made of gold, which, as everyone knows, is one of the elements, it therefore cannot be broken down by ordinary chemical means!"

"So you're saying that the One Ring is still a potential danger? It continues to exist?" gasped Faramir.

"Yes. I have it right here in this Petri dish!" With a dramatic flourish, Alatar produced a flat circular container from the folds of his cerulean robes and set it down on the deck table. The Council regarded it with awe.

"Sauron's spirit, like the Ring, is changed and divided," said the Wizard. "But it continues to exist. And if the Ring were to be reforged…"

"… then Sauron would return," finished Gandalf grimly.

"Our course is plain," said Aragorn. "The Ring must be destroyed!"

"I _told_ you, _matter cannot be created or destroyed!"_ cried Alatar. "Such a thing goes against the fundamental nature of the universe!"

"Well, then what are we _supposed_ to do with it?" cried Legolas.

Boromir, meanwhile, had levitated over to the table thoughtfully. "It is a gift, a gift to the foes of Mordor! Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy; let us use it _against_ him!"

Aragorn leapt to his feet. "You cannot wield it! None of us can!"

"Well, obviously _I_ can't; I can't wield so much as a pair of pinking shears in my current state—and thanks for rubbing it in, by the way," added Boromir mordantly. "But how do you know that _you_ couldn't wield it; or Faramir? Have you ever _tried?"_

Aragorn paused, and realized that he had never even considered this. However, he wasn't about to admit this aloud. "Of course I've _tried_, you nitwit, I wouldn't say so otherwise."

"_When?"_

"Uh… right before you showed up at the Council of Elrond! We had a Ring-wielding session, and guess what? _None_ of us could do it!"

Boromir rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. _Right."_

"It's _true! _Just ask Legolas!"

Legolas appeared dazed. "_This is no mere Ranger! He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn! You owe him your allegiance! And heir to the throne of Gondor! Have you heard nothing that Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed! THE RING MUST BE DESTROYED!"_

"Uh, Legolas…?"

Alatar, meanwhile, bristled with rage. "I _told_ you, matter cannot be created or des…"

"Just watch!" cried Gimli, and brought his axe crashing down on the Petri dish, imbedding itself deep in the table. Shards of glass and sediment flew in all directions.

"You **(censored)** bastard! Do you have _any_ idea how long it took me to collect that!" screeched the Blue Wizard.

"You **(censored)** bastard! You just put an axe through my table!" cried Faramir. "Éowyn's going to break my other arm next!"

"I think I'd be a bit more concerned about the fact that you've now got the One Ring sprinkled throughout your garden, little brother," remarked Boromir.

The Steward's eyes widened. "Oh, Eru, you're _right!_ Supposing it kills off the begonias or something? She'll have a _fit!"_

"That wasn't exactly what I…" began Boromir.

"Hors d'oeuvres, anyone?" said the Lady in question, appearing at Faramir's elbow.

He yelped and whirled around, and then sidestepped to conveniently block the table from view. "Éowyn!" he said cheerily, taking the tray. "How thoughtful of you! I'll pass these around…"

As soon as she was safely indoors, Faramir sniffed the tray, pulled a face, and dumped the contents into the shrubbery. "Éowyn's cooking tends to enrich the manure," he explained.

"If we could return to the topic at hand…" began Gandalf.

"Yes, indeed," said Aragorn. "Everybody sit down and shut up, lest I be forced to follow the example of my foster father and do strange eyebrow exercises and copiously overuse the word 'doom' until you all are confused into submission."

Everyone sat down, with the exception of Boromir, who instead levitated in a sitting position, a technicality that went unquestioned by all present.

"Now," said Aragorn, "because we are living in a democratic system, under which the right of free speech is protected, in order to ensure that the voice of the common man does not go unheard…"

"We're a monarchy, actually, Aragorn," said Faramir.

"Oh." The King paused. "Well, never mind that— at all events, I wish to hear everyone's ideas on the subject, and I wish to hear them in an orderly fashion, because I know from personal experience that when these sorts of things become chaotic and out of control people tend to get angry and shout and gesticulate a lot and speak in foreign languages and offer around weapons and make promises of allegiance that they seriously regret within the next two hours."

He paused. The Council gazed at him expectantly.

"To ensure that this does not occur," Aragorn continued presently, I have decided upon…" Another pause. "A game."

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**A/n: **Enraged? Amused? Perplexed? Disturbed? Drop me a review and I promise to reply henceforth!


	3. Let The Games Begin

**Disclaimer:** _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy is a heartwrenchingly beautiful mythological epic and arguably the greatest literary achievement of the 20th century. If I owned it, however, it would involve gratuitous sex and bawdy humor, and would probably be printed in cheap magazines and sold under the counter at bars. Put two and two together, folks.

**A/n:** And we're back with live coverage of the Council of Elessar. Rest assured that the bickering has continued unabated during our hiatus and that you haven't really missed anything at all.

Note: Our techies have changed the name of the Blue Wizard "Luinon" to "Alatar" in order to maintain canonical accuracy. Thanks to special ace correspondent **Bubonic Woodchuck**for the tip-off.

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"This," said Boromir flatly, folding his transparently muscled arms across his chest, "has got to be one of the stupidest things I've ever done in my life. And I'm even including the time Faramir and I got drunk and climbed naked to the top of the Tower of Ecthelion and spent three hours trying to piss on the White Tree."

There was a brief and awkward silence immediately following this proclamation, during which Faramir's ears turned very red and he muttered something unintelligible about the tree having already been dead, anyway.

"For once, I'm inclined to agree with Boromir," frowned Gandalf. "Might I inquire—once again—as to the _purpose_ of this exercise?"

Aragorn sighed with royal patience. "Its purpose," he explained, "is to canvass a wide range of possible solutions to this dilemma, while enabling us to learn a bit more about each other in the process."

"I have absolutely _no_ desire to know any of you better than I do already," said the Green Wanderer emphatically. There was a general murmur of approval.

The King threw his hands in the air huffily. "Well, you know what, then? Fine. _Fine! _Anyone who isn't going to be cooperative can just _leave!_"

The faces of the Council members lit up with inexpressible hope. "Really?" they said in unison.

"No."

The buoyant expressions faded away, and there was some muttering of an unpleasant and largely obscene character.

"Now," continued Aragorn, "has everyone given me their slips of paper?"

There was another, somewhat duller murmur of acquiescence.

Aragorn nodded in approval. "Right, let's get cracking, then. Gandalf, your hat, if you please?"

With great resignation, the Wizard handed the article in question to the King, who promptly turned it upside-down and deposited a handful of folded parchments into the makeshift basket. He shook it a bit for good measure. "Right… I'm going to pass this around, and I want everyone to draw a slip _at random._ No peeking!" he added reprovingly, before closing his eyes and fumbling blindly within the hat to procure a paper for himself.

The passing of Gandalf's hat was conducted among the ranks with surprisingly little commotion and hassle (though it was dropped nearly three times by an incorporeal and supremely vexed Boromir before Faramir chose to intervene), and once all the slips were accounted for and the hat returned to its cantankerous owner, Aragorn cleared his throat and unraveled his paper.

"Right, here's our first suggestion." He paused and squinted. "_I think that we should donate the fragments of the One Ring to a reputable dental facility, whereupon they might be melted down and used as fillings for some poor sod's molars. Possibly Gimli's, since he's expendable and has bad teeth, anyway._ Well, would anyone like to hazard a guess?"

"A guess?" asked Faramir, bemused.

"Yes, a _guess!_ You're _supposed_ to guess who wrote it!" snapped Aragorn testily. "Honestly, haven't you been listening at _all?_ That's the whole point of the game!"

"I thought that the _point_ of the game was to brainstorm a solution to the problem of the One Ring, which happens to be peppered through my _bloody flowerbeds?"_

Aragorn paused, opened his mouth, closed it again, frowned, opened it again, and said, "Well, I guess Legolas."

"Curses!" cried Legolas, stamping his delicate foot against the ground petulantly. "What gave me away?"

"Other than the blatant and unwarranted hostility against Gimli?" said Aragorn. "Well, the paper smells like lavender-scented hand lotion…"

"How would you know what lotion Legolas uses?" asked Éomer, suspiciously.

Aragorn glanced about shiftily. "Oh, no reason…"

Gimli, meanwhile, had swelled like an angry bullfrog. Noting that the Dwarf's battleaxe was within throwing distance, Legolas muttered something about the humidity on this side of the terrace being bad for his split-ends and quickly changed seats with Imrahil.

"Er, that's one suggestion down," said Aragorn hastily. "Who's up next? Faramir?"

Faramir sighed and unfolded his slip of paper. "Right, here goes…" He cleared his throat peremptorily. "_If I had the One Ring, then I would use it—"_

"Boromir," cut in Aragorn.

"At least let him finish reading!" objected Boromir irritably.

"Oh, come now, Boromir, we all know you wrote it!" said Aragorn. "And we all know what the rest of it will say_—let us use the weapon of the Enemy against him, it is a gift to the foes of Mordor, not with ten thousand men could you do this,_ _Rangers are half-assed flea-ridden layabouts_, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…"

"Well, I personally think that those statements smack of truth and wisdom."

"I resent that!" cried Faramir.

"I meant _Northern_ Rangers, little brother," said Boromir, pacifyingly.

"Well, that's all right, then," said Faramir. "Might I continue reading?" He cleared his throat again. "_If I had the One Ring, then I would use it to turn myself invisible so that I could sneak into Arwen's bedroom at three in the morning and put plastic spiders under her pillow, because that would just be plain hilarious."_

There was a lengthy silence. Then, Aragorn rounded on Boromir. "What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?"

Boromir bristled. "How the blazes would _I_ know?"

"Because you _wrote_ it, you imbecile!" sputtered Aragorn.

"I most certainly did _not,"_ objected Boromir. "I'm a _ghost_, jackass—I don't _need_ a Ring to become invisible. Moreover, why on Arda would I spend my precious eternity playing childish pranks on your wife when I could be enjoying margaritas and footspas in the afterlife?"

Haldir frowned. "They have footspas? Where?"

"Sorry," said Boromir's ghost. "They're for the indisputably canonically dead only."

"Well, if it _wasn't_ Boromir," put in Legolas, "then I guess Merry."

Merry shook his head. "No dice."

"Well, let's move on," said Aragorn.

"But we haven't all guessed yet!" protested Éomer.

"Sorry—only two guesses per suggestion. I made that very clear in the rules," said the King flatly.

"You most certainly did _not,"_ said Éomer. "And anyway, I don't think that _your_ guess should count. You made it before Faramir was finished reading. We shouldn't all be penalized for your stupidity."

"Oh, for the love of Eru, it's just a bloody game!" groaned Boromir. "I'm up next. Faramir, would you mind holding up the slip so that I can read it?" He waved his lucent hands explanatorily.

Faramir, who had been sitting in contemplative silence, glanced at him askance. "Were you serious about there being margaritas in the afterlife?"

Boromir nodded. "Of course. Would I have said so otherwise?"

Faramir briefly weighed the notion of suicide in his mind, but presently decided that that sort of thing looked terrible on one's résumé. Sighing, he unraveled Boromir's paper and proffered it for him to read.

Boromir squinted. "What the…? This one says _Let us go through the Mines of Moria._ Gimli, is that the _only_ suggestion you have to offer during situations of crisis?"

The Dwarf shrugged. "Well, it's as good as anything else that's been said so far."

Boromir, shrugging likewise, was forced to concede the point. "All right, then… who's next?"

Imrahil of Dol Amroth unfolded his slip of parchment. "_So the One Ring has been found. Well, what does it matter? Most of us are going to die, anyway, at one point or another. Why should it matter when, or how, or at whose hand? In the end, valor and honor are all just transient, illusory entities. The only two things that are certain in this life are death and taxes, and, where I come from, we don't have either. Or, at least, we're not supposed to. The point is, life's a crapshoot. So whatever."_ Imrahil frowned. "It seems to continue in this vein for several more paragraphs. Need I continue reading?"

"No, that's quite enough," said Aragorn, blinking.

Boromir rounded on his brother in horror. "_Faramir!_ That wasn't yours, was it?"

"Of course it wasn't!" cried Faramir, somewhat indignantly. "Why would you think such a thing?"

"Well, you've always tended a bit towards maudlin," said Boromir. "And you were contemplating suicide just a minute ago."

Faramir's eyes widened incredulously. "How did you know that?"

"When you're dead, you get a sort of sixth sense about these things," replied Boromir loftily, before glancing around the terrace. "Well, whoever wrote it… someone get that man a beer."

"Sorry, we don't drink alcohol on this terrace."

"Aragorn, I've got a problem," Gimli piped up gruffly. "Mine hasn't got anything written on it. It's just got this weird sort of picture… I can't tell what it's supposed to be." He turned the paper upside-down. "Well, that's a bit better! Say, that looks like you, Aragorn… but what's _that?"_

Imrahil leaned in his seat to peer at the parchment over Gimli's shoulder. He turned a rather delicate shade of red. "How rude!"

"What? What is it?" demanded Aragorn.

"It's a picture of you, Sire," said Imrahil presently. "With a broom."

"A broom? Well, what's so wrong in that? It's probably alluding to equality of the sexes or the importance of the working class or some other sophisticated social statement. After all, we are living under a d…"

"For the _last_ time, my Lord, it's a monarchy!" hissed Faramir through gritted teeth.

"The broom in the picture," Imrahil went on, "is inserted into a recess of Your Highness's posterior that is not entirely accustomed to that purpose."

"Are you saying…"

"Oh, _now_ I see!" cried Gimli, peering at the illustration. "It's a picture of Aragorn with a broom up his arse! That's the funniest damn thing I've seen since that perm job Legolas got last year! I guess Boromir!"

"Sadly, no," sighed Boromir's apparition.

Aragorn, seething with rage, glared around at the Council members. "All right, who drew that? Out with it!"

There was another lengthy pause.

Then, Éomer shrugged. "Well, I didn't really have a choice. You know Rohirrim can't write."

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When the commotion had died down, Aragorn had returned to his seat nursing a black eye, and political relations between Gondor and Rohan had been all but destroyed, the game continued as before.

"I-ay ink-thay at-thay ee-way ould-shay…"

"Not in Pig Latin, please, Elladan," sighed Aragorn, pressing his glass of iced tea to his mottled eyelid.

"You lot have no sense of humor," pouted Elladan before complying. "_I think that we should, in the interests of the safety and welfare of the Steward of Gondor, repair to the nearest home improvement terminus, there to purchase a new deck table, twenty-four pounds of mulch, some begonias, and a brand of fertilizer designed for fortification against aphids and the Dark powers. This is certainly the least we can do for having trespassed so gracelessly upon his hospitality, and then and only then can we turn our attention to larger forces at work."_

Boromir rolled his eyes. "How subtle, Faramir."

"Oh, yeah, and you're Captain Understatement," grumbled the Prince of Ithilien, slouching in his chair and folding his arms across his midriff bad-temperedly. "I still think I deserve some recompense for damages done to my terrace."

"The crown will bear that in mind," said Aragorn. "Next?"

"Now _here's_ a suggestion I approve of," said Elrohir. "This says _I think we should all get fantastically drunk and never speak of this again._ Sounds like sage advice to me."

"I'll put my vote in for Pippin," said Éomer.

"I don't think Pippin is capable of writing anything at this stage," countered Boromir, gesturing toward the hobbit in question, who was still sprawled beneath his own chair and largely unconscious. "Merry."

"You're on a roll, Boromir," said Merry, with an affirmative nod. "How do you do it?"

"Oh, luck, that's all," said Boromir with commendable modesty.

"I still don't see why he's winning," muttered Faramir irritably, "given that _I'm_ the one who's supposed to be able to read the hearts and minds of men."

Aragorn, equally disgruntled, intervened. "Are we running a war council or a Boromir fan club on this terrace? Can we get on with it?"

"Get on with what—the council or the club meeting?" put in Merry.

"Dear Eru, _anything_, so long as you're all off my terrace by eight o'clock," moaned Faramir. "Who's next?"

"Myself," said Gandalf the Green, wrinkling his hoary brows. "_If I had the One Ring, then I would use it…"_

"Boromir!" cried Aragorn.

"_Shut up!"_ cried the rest of the Council.

"_Thank_ you," said the Wizard, glaring at the Dúnadan in question. "As I was _saying…_ _If I had the One Ring, then I would use it to turn myself invisible so that I could sneak into Estel's bedroom at three in the morning and put plastic spiders under his pillow, because that would just be plain hilarious._"

"Elladan," said Boromir.

"Nope," said Elladan.

"Elrohir!" cried Faramir. Elrohir miraculously procured and threw a whipped-cream pie in the direction of Faramir's head by way of confirmation, which flew wide and knocked a ceramic pot of petunias off the balustrades. Faramir, however, was far too elated to notice. "I got it right! I got it right! And you got it _wrong!_ Ha! _Ha!"_ he gloated after the singularly irksome manner of younger siblings, and leapt from his chair to perform what uncannily resembled a victory dance. A few moments later, he sat back down, red-faced with exertion and embarrassment, as the rest of the Council of Elessar looked on with mouths agape.

"That," said Boromir fervently a moment later, "was the single-most intricate dance I have _ever_ seen a man perform with his foot wedged in a glass of iced tea."

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**A/n:** Dear God, this fic is on crack. And I'll have to have a fourth chapter after all.


	4. A Revolting Sort Of Afternoon

**Disclaimers:** As of this moment, I do not own LotR. However, as soon as I've prevailed in my lawsuit against Kellogg Company concerning the rights to the brand-name "Eggo Waffles", I'm suing Tolkien Estates for plagiarism. We'll see who owns LotR _then!_

**A/n: **Goodness! One hundred and one reviews! That's 33.6666666666666666666666667 reviews per chapter—which, oddly enough, is approximately the same figure as Bush's current approval rating. How coincidentical.

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Collectively speaking, war councils are not social functions known for exclusive catering, relaxing ambience, and sparkling dinnertime wit. In fact, on grand spectrum of Socially Uncomfortable Situations, "war councils" are officially ranked at #2, just after the Spanish Inquisition and just ahead of wedding receptions. This being said, it was radically understandable that tensions were running somewhat taut at the Council of Elessar, especially given the disturbing lack of strong drink on Faramir's terrace—a fact which was only highlighted by the fact that Elladan and Elrohir had just embarked upon a lively rendition of "99 Bottles of Dorwinion On The Wall".

"_99 Bottles of Dorwinion on the Wall!_

_99 Bottles of Dorwinion!_

_Take one down and pass it around,_

_98 Bottles of Dorwinion on the Wall!_

_98 Bottles of Dorwinion on the Wall!_

_98 Bottles of Dorwinion!_

_Take one down and—"_

"If you two _peredhil_ don't stop singing that infernal song, I'm going to take you both down and pass you straight into bloody Mandos!" snapped Faramir testily.

Elrohir paused in his singing long enough to stick out his tongue at the Steward. "You're not the boss of us! You can't tell us what to do!"

"You're on my sodding terrace and you'll do what I sodding well tell you!"

"I would listen to him, lads," put in Boromir's ghost grimly. "I once saw someone at Henneth Annûn backtalk Faramir before he'd had his second cup of coffee, and Faramir ripped his head off with his bare hands!"

The singing stopped abruptly.

Faramir looked wonderingly at his erstwhile sibling, hovering smugly above the chair next to his. "At the risk of sounding completely asinine, do you have any idea how much I've missed having you around?"

"I'm touched, little brother, that you're handling your grief at my passing so well that it's already labeled an 'asinine' matter," said Boromir huffily. "But you ought not to miss me. I'm here a lot, you know—invisibly, of course."

Faramir's eyes widened. _"What?"_

Boromir shrugged. "Footspas all told, Faramir, the afterlife's a bit dull—especially when you have to listen to Father and Théoden argue all day about whether Théodred or I died the more honorable death, which is a bit embarrassing for the both of us in some horribly macabre way. It's more interesting here in Ithilien."

"Whatever do you do while you're here?"

"Oh, different things," replied Boromir airily. "I look at books or maps in your study, if you're kind enough to leave them lying open, but mostly I like to watch Éowyn browbeat you. It's terribly entertaining."

"Well, I'm glad _some_one enjoys it," muttered Faramir.

"I also like to visit your kitchen in the middle of the night," Boromir went on, "and blow your freezer door open."

"That was _you?"_ cried Faramir indignantly. "Are you aware that _every time_ Éowyn comes downstairs in the morning and finds the freezer open, she thinks that _I've_ been down for a midnight snack and won't let me have any ice cream for a week?"

Before Boromir had time to reply to this highly sensitive question and possibly prompt his younger brother to defy the parameters of dimension and mortality out of sheer determination to inflict physical harm on Boromir as a result of his answer, Aragorn, who had called a brief recess in the council proceedings while he took a bathroom break, reappeared on the terrace. "Well, I'm back," he said, somewhat unnecessarily. "Incidentally, Faramir, you're the only man I know who has framed Thomas Kincade prints hanging in his outhouse."

Faramir closed his eyes as if in pain. "Please, don't speak of it."

"Oh—Éowyn again? Very well," said Aragorn. "Let's continue. Who's next?"

Alatar cleared his throat tentatively. "I am." Unraveling his slip of paper with trembling, knotted hands, he then squinted, frowned, lifted the paper closer to his eyes, and said, "I'm afraid there's nothing written on this. It's blank."

"_Blank?"_ gasped Aragorn.

"Blank," affirmed the Blue Wizard.

The Dúnadan rose to his feet and looked around at the seated Council members accusingly. "Alright, who didn't write a suggestion? Out with it!"

The others stared back at him blankly. "Maybe it was Pip," suggested Merry. "He's not exactly cognizant at the moment."

"Mine is blank, too," said Legolas.

"It _wasn't_ your turn," snapped Aragorn.

"But that means there are _two_ blank slips," persisted Legolas. "And only one of them is Pippin's. Which means that someone else here didn't fill out their paper."

There was a lengthy silence. Finally, Boromir sighed. "I couldn't pick up the bloody pencil."

"_What?"_ exclaimed Aragorn.

"I couldn't pick it up. My fingers kept going through it. Eventually I decided that it wasn't worth the bother." Boromir shrugged. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Everyone at this Council is well-acquainted with my views on this topic, so there's hardly any point in going over them all again. It's like trying to teach gymnastics to a quadriplegic, explaining myself to you lot…" he added moodily.

"Well," said Aragorn superciliously, "if you haven't submitted a suggestion, you can't play the game. It isn't fair. I'm disqualifying you and taking all the points you've earned into the custody of the state."

Faramir blinked incredulously. "We're actually keeping score?"

"You can't disqualify me!" cried Boromir indignantly. "I'm was winning!"

"And now you're not," smirked Aragorn. "Such is life."

"In case you haven't noticed, you idiot, I'm _not_ alive!"

"If you're transferring all of Boromir's points to state custody," put in Faramir, "does that mean that you get them all, or do I get some, too?"

"Don't go there, Faramir, or I'll leave your freezer open every night for a year," hissed Boromir, his mind reeling with all the impossible and unspeakably painful things he wanted to inflict upon Aragorn at that moment (the most impossible and unspeakably painful of which so completely transcend the ratings system that they would be impossible to print on this website, even if they _were_ relevant to the progression of the story).

Faramir was surprisingly unmoved by his brother's threat. "Levitate a little to the left, Boromir," he said carelessly, "you're sitting through my iced tea. Who's next?"

Éomer peered at his paper. "_I would create several identical copies of the fragments of the One Ring, placing each decoy in a separate container and strapping each container to the back of a wild stallion, each of which would be sent galloping away in the four cardinal directions. Rangers lying in wait at strategic locations would intercept the stallions and set off with the decoys in the direction of Minas Tirith, only to be overtaken by battalions of Orcs (who are really other Rangers in disguise), resulting in staged skirmishes and abductions. With any luck, these antics would so distract Sauron that he would completely fail to notice the _real_ Ring, which would placed in a lead box and buried deep in the desert sands of Harad. And, if he _did_ happen to notice… well, let's say that none of us would probably have any objection if he just descended on Harad and wiped it right off the map, Southron bastards."_

"_WHAT?"_ burst out Aragorn. "You can _read?"_

Éomer sneered. "I taught myself while you were in the bathroom."

"Why, you—"

Faramir chose to diplomatically intervene. "I guess King Elessar. And Sire, you really can't keep calling them 'Southron bastards'. It's not good for trade, and I happen to be excessively fond of coconuts."

Isildur's Heir appeared rounded on Faramir, affronted. "And who are _you_ to tell me what I should or shouldn't call our trade associates?"

"Er… your Steward?"

"Hey, 'Ro!" interrupted Elladan, nudging his twin in the ribs. "Do you remember that one time when we hollowed out that coconut…"

"… and then we banged the two halves together and galloped around and around and around Imladris at three in the morning…"

"… until Erestor stumbled out of his room in his knickers and swore he'd smash our nuts with a mallet if we didn't shut the hell up?" Elladan paused. "I'm still not exactly sure in what context that statement was meant…"

"I don't remember that ever happening at Rivendell," declared Aragorn.

"Of course not, silly—you weren't there," said Elrohir dismissively. "When was this, 'Dan? Tuesday?"

"I think it was technically Wednesday."

"Can we get a move on, please?" cut in Gandalf irritably. "I'm rather keen on getting back to Valinor sometime in the next century, if that's at all possible."

Haldir read his slip. "_Being intrigued by the curiously resilient metallic properties of the One Ring, I would be interested to observe its effects on the organic matter native to Ithilien. I suggest that the garden into which the fragments of the Ring were inadvertently scattered be isolated and converted into a research center, wherein dedicated geologists, botanists, and scientists of every description can observe and study this unique biological interplay._"

"Well, it's that blue bloke, of course. Sweet Eru, you have a one-track mind," added Boromir to Alatar, eyeing him with some skepticism. "Though it might be interesting to see what Éowyn would do to Faramir if she woke up one morning to find her garden transformed into a research institute…"

"Shut up, Boromir, you're not playing anymore," said Aragorn.

"Just so that you know," growled Boromir, "I'm going to make your life a living hell for disqualifying me. If you thought those shades on the Paths of the Dead were nasty…"

"Tough words from a man who can't even pick up a pencil," snorted Aragorn.

"In a few minutes I'm going to pick up a pencil and shove it straight up—"

"I don't think Pippin's in any condition to read his paper, so I'll do it for him, shall I?" said Merry. "His says '_I think we should plant the One Ring on a beautiful beachfront property in the tropics with balmy breezes and a built-in wet bar—then maybe I'll get sent _there_ instead of this pathetic second-rate backwater they call Middle-earth.'_"

"Mithrandir," said Faramir.

"You know me all too well, my boy," sighed the Green Wizard. "Hurry up and read the last one, whoever's got it."

"Last but not least…" Merry frowned. "Well, actually, this might very well be the least… it says '_Damn it if I'm going to suggest anything unless I get some screentime in the movies.' _What's _that_ supposed to mean?" He turned to Imrahil. "I suppose you must have written it. Who _are_ you, anyway?"

Imrahil drew himself up stiffly. "I am the Prince of Dol Amroth!"

"Where's that?"

"I also," Imrahil went on, ignoring the former query, "rescued Faramir from the battle of the Pelennor after he was cut down by a poisoned arrow."

"Oh." Merry's frown deepened. "Wasn't it Faramir's horse that did that? You don't look much like a horse."

Imrahil rolled his eyes and sighed crossly. "That's the _point._ I was replaced—by an _equine_, no less. How absurd is that? And they expect us to believe that Faramir could get shot twice with poisoned arrows and then get dragged on his head across the battlefield, not to mention the paved streets of Minas Tirith, and live to tell the tale—without so much as sustaining brain damage, I might add, unless the fact that he agreed to host this council on his terrace is evidence in that direction."

Faramir sighed. "I'm beginning to think you may have a point there…"

Haldir sniffled. "Count yourself lucky. _Some_ of us got our fifteen minutes of fame on the silver screen only to be uncanonically killed off in an uncanonical fashion in an uncanonical setting. Do you have _any _idea the kind of identity issues that breeds? And I don't even get a footspa. My life—or whatever it is I'm currently leading—is unbearably tragic."

"Heartbreaking, I'm sure, but we're running a council here, not a group therapy session," interrupted Aragorn.

"I thought we decided it was a Boromir fan club meeting?" put in Boromir snidely.

"Now what? How are we going to decide which suggestion to follow?" inquired Faramir. "Does the person with the most points get to decide?"

"No," said the King, "we're going to have a vote."

"Then what was the point of all those bloody scores?" cried Faramir indignantly.

"The thrill of the chase, the thrill of the chase…" said Aragorn vaguely. "But letting whoever is clearly the best and cleverest make all the decisions isn't fair to the rest of us. We'll vote on it. Everyone pass their slips to the left, to me."

The others acquiesced hastily, beginning to see the light glimmering at the end of the tunnel. Soon, Aragorn had all the papers gathered in his hands and was sifting through them idly. "Well, let's do it like this: I'll read an option, and the rest of you raise your hands accordingly. Only one vote per person, and _no cheating!"_ He selected a slip at random. "All in favor of visiting the Mines of Moria?"

Gimli raised his swarthy hand emphatically. His was the only one.

"Well, so much for that," shrugged Aragorn, crumpling the slip and tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. Faramir promptly dove into the flowerbed to evacuate the litter. "All in favor of filling Gimli's molars?"

No hands. "I've cooled a bit on that particular idea, to be quite honest," whispered Legolas to Haldir, eyeing Gimli's axe nervously.

"All in favor of placing plastic arachnidan artifacts under my pillow at ungodly hours?"

Two identical hands.

"All in favor of eradicating Harad?" The King glanced around shiftily, saw with displeasure that no one else seemed particularly keen on this course of action, and sighed. "Oh well, it was worth a try. All in favor of landscaping Faramir's backyard?"

A hand shot up from behind the hydrangeas.

"All in favor of converting Faramir's backyard into a research center?"

One hand.

"All in favor of sending the One Ring to the beach?"

One hand.

"All in favor of wallowing in self-pity for the next thirty minutes?"

Two hands. The much-maligned Haldir and Imrahil sniffed despondently.

"All in favor of getting drunk?"

Merry raised his hand and Pippin's. The twins looked rather as if they wished to change their votes.

"Well, we haven't got a solid majority in any case," said Aragorn. "We'll have to narrow the choices and vote again—"

"But you haven't read all the suggestions yet," interrupted Boromir.

Aragorn rolled his eyes and growled dangerously. "For the _last_ time, Boromir—we're _not_ using the Ring! How many times do I have to say it before it penetrates your thick, imbecilic skull? Honestly! You'd think the three arrows to the chest would have done the trick, but you're just as blockheadedly stubborn as ev—"

"That wasn't what I meant," said Boromir coldly. He swiveled in midair to face the others. "All in favor of ramming a broomstick up Aragorn's arse?"

There was a scant second of hesitation, and then twelve hands flew into the air in perfect unison. Boromir flashed a transparent but toothy grin at Aragorn, whose own skin had paled to a near-spectral hue. "The people have spoken," he said, the edges of the smile twisting into singularly wicked angles.

"I… but… you… I… Eru damn it, this is a monarchy!" cried Aragorn, taking a few defensive steps backward and wishing he'd brought the Tower Guard with him.

"Then you may consider this, dear Elessar," replied Boromir sweetly, "a _coup d'état_."

Aragorn gulped and took another step backward, colliding with the balustrade in the process and knocking over a potted fern. His eyes flickered frantically from Faramir to Legolas to Gimli to Gandalf, none of whom appeared particularly sympathetic to his plight, and then back to Boromir, whose expression was so infuriatingly smug that Aragorn would have been compelled, under less bizarre circumstances, to pound it straight into the floor. These _were_ exceedingly bizarre circumstances, however, and, in addition to acknowledging the apparent futility of trying to beat up a ghost, Aragorn was loath to remove his rear from where it was pressed protectively against the railing.

"Obviously, I can't do the honors myself," said Boromir regretfully, gesturing with his incorporeal hands explanatorily.

"I'll do it," declared Gandalf the Green grimly.

"Hey, it was _my_ idea!" protested Éomer.

"Well, maybe we'll all have a go," said Merry. "Faramir, where do you keep your brooms? Faramir?" Everyone turned to look at the lord of Emyn Arnen, who was not paying much attention to the proceedings, but standing in a pensive attitude, his chin resting in his left hand and his eyes fixed contemplatively on the flowerbed. "_Faramir!"_

His head snapped up. "Sorry—zoned out a bit there," he said, and then frowned. "I've been thinking."

"Oh, _damn_ you and your thinking, Faramir!" reproached Boromir, irritated at the interruption. "Haven't I told you a hundred times that thinking is bad for you?"

Faramir ignored his brother, turning instead to Alatar. "You said before that matter couldn't be created or destroyed."

The Blue Wizard nodded enthusiastically. "I'm glad that _someone_ was listening. It's one of the fundamental properties of—"

"You also said," Faramir went on, "that the Ring, though not destroyed, had been divided and changed—and that Sauron's spirit—his life force—had been changed and divided also. If Sauron's life force is tied to the Ring, then could we not destroy the Ring—or, at least, the _power_ of the Ring," he amended, as Alatar opened his mouth to object, "if we terminated Sauron's life force?"

Alatar frowned. "I'm not sure if that quite makes sense, and it really is a rather roundabout way of looking at the matter…"

"What are you getting at, Faramir?" interrupted Boromir curtly.

"What I'm getting at," said Faramir, "is that I know where Sauron is."

There was a collective murmur of astonishment. His peril momentarily forgotten, Aragorn turned to face his Steward incredulously. "_What?_ How… where…?"

"He _has_ been divided and changed," said Faramir, "beyond all recognition. And he's taken on physical form—but I'm sure, I'm nearly _positive_…"

"He's taken on physical form?" said Boromir slowly. Then, his face lit up. "I _knew_ it! I _knew_ it!"

Faramir frowned. "Knew what?"

"Sauron is Aragorn!" announced Boromir triumphantly. "I knew the hideous stench was beyond the scope of a mere mortal man!" His elation suddenly fizzled. "But he smelled like that even _before_ the Ring was thrown into Mount Doom," he mused sadly. "So I suppose I'm mistaken."

"Unfortunately, yes," said Faramir. "And Sauron hasn't just taken on _one_ physical form. His spirit is _divided._ _Altered. Changed._" He looked meaningfully at Legolas. "_Now_ do you see what I'm getting at?"

Legolas paled. "Oh, Eru…"

"What? What is it?" demanded Gimli.

Legolas gulped. "My harem…"

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**A/n: **Okay, okay, so there's going to be a fifth chapter. But _only_ a fifth chapter, and a short one at that, and then this story is _finished_, whether it likes it or _not!_

(ahem) Read and review, if you are so inclined…


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